bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY


September 16th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I dedicate these images to Becky Castoria, chubby candy guts, pumpkin bread,  vampirites, and odd attire.






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i wrote a monologue

September 16th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


If you google image ‘Sexy Robot Man,’ that is what you get. PS. FYI.

So, I have been ‘comissioned’ if you will to write a monologue for an upcoming festival of halloween plays, spoken from the perspective of a deceased person. This is what I mustered. Why am I so obsessed with robots even, as of late?

Also, please keep the image below in your mind as you read on. Yes; it exists.


The Way in Which Robots will Make Love to Each other

By Bekah Brunstetter

Elizabeth, middle age, appears. She has been electrocuted. Her hair is frazzled; she twitches.

It was a dark and stormy night. (Pause.) No, it wasn’t. It was pleasant, actually. The evening was doing that pleasant evening thing that happens when the weather begins to hover between Summer and Fall, crisp and cool and sweatery. Outside the window, the leaves said Hello, I am falling. I am falling, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.
(She pauses, nostalgically.)
Ernie loved leaves. Hi, the leaf, he would say. I wonder what he is doing right now, and whether or not it involves some memory of me.

We were snuggling, Ernie and I, that night, all wrapped into each other as best we could, as close as two can fit. We were watching something like a Canadian soap opera for teenagers in which the fat girl has no choice but to stay with her boyfriend who beats her, because she is fat, but her eyes are pretty, so she finds the will to live somehow.

We were snuggling like any two lovers would to Canadian television: feet touching, releasing adorable and annoying relaxed sounds towards each other, in and out. We were like any other snuggling lovers. (Pause.)  Except for the fact that Ernie is an Elder Care Robot I ordered online from Japan to care for my dying mother before she up and died two months ago, quietly and in her sleep, with no if ands or buts about it.
I believe in love, don’t you?

It seemed cruel to send Ernie away. He is so good at picking things up, and putting them other places. So clean and strong. So reliable.  So quiet. Naturally ,we fell in love.
This went on for sometime, and I was more than content to snuggle and exchange sounds with this body, as he picked things up for me, and put them where they belonged. I am picking this up, he would say, and sigh, I would say, loving him more than any person might love any person despite the annoying and adorable sounds they release when tired, or bored, or exasperated.

Now, I have always hated intercourse with a specific loathing usually reserved for dirty band aids. I find it to be painful and silly, like some sort of obligatory wedding dance in mis-sized stiletto shoes.  This worked well for Ernie and I. He did not require me to put out, and  I, in turn, laid off his nuts, if you will.
But this night in particular – there was something different in the air. As I watched something like a Canadian soap opera for teenagers, as I watched them kiss and fondle each other, spooning in bedrooms with unlocked doors as Mother carried laundry up the hall – I felt – curious. Aroused. I looked at up at Ernie, and thought:

In the future, Robots will make love to each other via files and jpegs. Their declarations of devotion will be titled iminlovewithyou dot doc. Their hearts will look like blank word documents. Once filled with musings and metallic love sounds, these documents will be transferred via soft robot touches, and love will happen. This love will be measured in  gifs, watts and gigabytes. Man and woman-bots, for the first time, will be able to compare their feelings of love with each other, scientifically.
How fucking romantic, I said, and I never say fucking, or romantic. This was huge. How fucking, fucking romantic.
Having been snuggling me for so long a period, Ernie had entered ‘sleep’ mode. WAKE,, I said, and those big eyes opened like metallic pieces of heaven pie. I touched him like always,  like one lovingly touches a new kitchen appliance, right out of the box: with tender respect, and joy.
I went down further. Further. Farther than ever. ERNIE’s functions moved within him and sounds came out, like sounds should. PERPLEXED, he managed, PERPLEXED. Shhhh I said. Further down I went, until I found someone’s version of paradise: metal, firm. They had not forgotten, these makers. They knew.
Perplexed, I was, as to how it was going to go down. But  I was Determined to take my love outside of myself, and put it onto this thing that I loved, take it inside myself, love it up all good.
It was worth it, I say, in retrospect. The thing that felt like a forest fire through my body and hair was the closest thing I had ever felt to love: love being a matter of risk; love feeling like fire being set to your insides, one by one.

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ting tong, the mail order bride

September 15th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

letter bomb 0200742242300.jpg

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a nugget

September 15th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter


Two girls, LAURALEE and TALLY, mid-20’s, are sunning themselves in Central Park. Expensive Bikinis. Expensive Shades.
A moment of sun.

Hey Lauralee?


How old were you when you made love to a homeless man for the first time?

(Pause. LAURALEE sits up. Removes her shades. Chews them. Thinks.)





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I think about you pretty much always

September 14th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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I got a Job!

September 14th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I will being freelance music PR full time! From home! What does THAT mean? I’m not sure. Will I make billz? Yes.

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The Reviews are In!

September 13th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

 And they are aight.




And Time Out NY which I can’t seem to locate on linear.

As reviewy things occur, pictures of me mildly drunk and full of chicken wings and flanked by cute boys  (Producer Jeremy Blocker, Director Geordie Broadwater) circle the interweb. They look like this.


In general, I’m satisfied – some people are perplexed – some people are happy to be perplexed – but all seemed to at least enjoy themselves – except the Backstage guy – who I actually suspect is not a ‘guy’ at all, but some sort of lawnmower, chaise lounge, or kitchen appliance.
One reviewer compares the show to House of Yes. I really like that play, but I had to work on it in directing in undergrad, and WOW. SO HARD. In a bad way. The language is really interesting, everything is interesting, but the things that are ACTUALLY HAPPENING are TOO EMOTIONALLY CONFUSING! I don’t want to write plays like that. I want to actors to really have something to push behind; I want to audience to relate. I think I can figure out a way to combine my strange whims with something more universally true. I don’t want to intentionally confuse. I think that came about with this play because it was the first time I was really trying to tackle a nearly plot-based MYSTERY – which is so not my scene. But all in all – I’m really happy with it.

Tonight I’m doing a talk back after the show which a bunch of students visiting from UNC as part of a seminar, which will be super cute, and will involve me making faux important faces and saying Smart Things. I enjoy very much the irony of the fact that I am writer of drama plays who, by day, has been steaming clothes for 10 an hour. I feel like some sort of cloak-ed super hero. As I steam, my steam says, I am important too. I am important too. Mayhaps.

But: in defense of my embarassing temp position: it being ‘market week’ in which the spring line is ‘marketed’ fr buyers from Saks and the like: THERE IS FREE GOURMET RIDICULOUS LUNCH EVERY DAY. Involving skewered shrimps sticking out of things and rosemary salad things and little lemon tarts. AND yesterday, I was sent home with bag o free clothings. Nice.

On a more uplifting note, I have may have landed a full time Music PR job, which will involve me pretending like I know what I’m doing – a lot.

Posted in horn tooting, i am scared, the writing of drama plays, theater, trying too hard | No Comments »

you cannot bomb our lights

September 11th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Not tonight, or ever. Take that, the terrorists.


You could feel it today. It rained fog tears and people spoke softly and knowingly to each other. Trains crawled. And when night came, the things blued up the goddamn sky for anyone who’d managed to forget.

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The times, even!

September 10th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Fanboats, my show You May Go Now is goin pretty aight. It even got a nice listing in the Times!

Here are pictoral references for your visual pleasing:



Last night was official opening. Champagne and chicken wings and soft belly laughs are awkward moments with Parents of Those Involved were had by all. Namely, the me.

I’m darn proud of the work I did on the script, the things I learned from the process, and how hard everyone has worked. It’s a freaking weird complicated play and it’s really special to see so many talented people embrace its flaws and rally around it. I still don’t feel like my work is done but – a lot of progress has been made – and the timing couldn’t have been better. I really feel like a professional playwright of sorts – which is good feeling right after finishing school. I feel like I actually learned how to REALLY work and REALLY communicate during this show. It’s one thing to just write the thing, apathetically/narcisissistically crap the thing out – it is definitely another to do actual WORK and make the thing the best it absolutely can be.

Gah. I am so gay for the writing on Plays. I would marry it barefoot on a beach. I would have ten of its triplets.

Rehearsals are now in full swing for I have it at Manhattan Theater Source’s Estrogenius festival on October, and for I Used to Write on Walls: a Lady Play, which runs through October at the Gene Frankel. More to come, even!

Posted in horn tooting, the writing of drama plays, theater | No Comments »

i love you, the blog

September 10th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I have not abandoned you. I do not mean to neglect. Please refrain from pouting in the corner.

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